


Excerpts from the Intended Autobiography of an ex-Death Eater

by Gilly_sirlCAN



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Light description of sexual activities; some mischief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilly_sirlCAN/pseuds/Gilly_sirlCAN
Summary: Setting about writing his autobiography, Lucius starts with anabécédaireof important people and events in his life.





	Excerpts from the Intended Autobiography of an ex-Death Eater

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Lucius Big Bang 2013, over at LiveJournal, beta'ed by someone named Craftsman : if you're out here, dear Craftsman, consider yourself credited!

 

**Abraxas**

I never knew if my father conceived any pride in my being. He was, unfortunately, quite as I am with Draco. Remote. Stern. And an utter failure, I can attest to it now. Not only did I imbue in Draco the unfortunate beliefs of my ancestors, which brought our family nothing but woes, but I was unable to protect him from Tom Riddle’s cruelty.

One vivid memory brings me back to my father’s deathbed: I had brought Draco, then but three or four, to see his grandfather, at the latter’s request. Of course, there was a risk of contagion, therefore very powerful protection charms had been cast on the little one, and, accessorily, me.

We advanced in the heavily draped, hushed room in which he was confined. Draco was a little scared, and so was I; my father had never been a paragon of patience, and agony certainly would not help matters. I speak with the coldness of hindsight, because at that moment, I was doing my best to affect the sufficient amount of solemnity at the impending loss of my father.

In we proceeded, then, little Draco’s trembling hand in mine. There was a partial concealment charm hiding him from view, to protect young eyes from the ravages of end stage Dragon Pox. His breathing came in painful rasps, interrupted by feverish muttering. I sat on a chair by the bed, and Draco remained standing, his clammy little hand resting on my knee. He looked up at me expectantly.

“Can he hear us, Father?” he whispered.

I listened intently.

“I don’t think so. He’s sleeping for now. Be quiet.”

I looked back at my father, who stirred slightly.

“My son? There is too much light in this room. Get my son to see it right,” he rasped.

I started at the sound of his voice, as if it already came from Beyond.

“I’m here, Father. I’ll… snuff some candles for you.”

I looked at Draco and put a finger to my lips, enjoining him to remain silent as I obviously did no such thing; the room was already pitch dark except from a sliver of daylight coming from a slight part in the draperies.

“Is the young one here too, my boy? I want to see him. Bring him closer.”

Draco’s eyes widened. Of course, he was as close to his grandfather as he ever would want to be. I had to gently push him closer to the bed, but I did not like it any more than him.

“You are very like your father… like your poor grandmother. Veela blood she had… Let me look at you more. Stand in the light.”

Once again, I had to silently ensure that my son would not heed his grandfather’s delirious request.

“… Black… you have… your face is your mother’s. Good daughter-in-law… Narcissa. Go to your mother, now, boy.”

Poor Draco was rooted into place, and I had to seize him gently by the shoulders to have him face me.

“You heard your grandfather, Draco. Join your mother. I won’t be long.”

He nodded gravely and walked away and out of the room, not without taking several glances back at the deathbed.

I sighed, and moved closer to my father’s bedside.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Father? I sent the boy away.”

He heaved several breaths, each one harsher and terrifying than the previous. Suddenly, he sat upright (at least as straight as his state allowed). Goosebumps erupted on my skin and my hair stood on end at my nape as he was glaring at me through the veil covering his bed.

It was a moment before I could make out what he was saying: the poor man probably thought he was screaming, but the words came out a murmur.

“Don’t let them get you, boy. Don’t let them get you.”

**Bellatrix**

There was a time when Bellatrix Lestrange was not so mad. One could hardly say she was the most mentally stable of the Black sisters, either. Rather, that she had probably inherited all those appalling defects Pureblood in-breeding could yield, defects my dear Narcissa and poor, misguided Andromeda did not display (if one excepts marrying down). Our family was always careful to contract unions with different families, within the limits the Pureblood pool allowed, of course.  
  
There came a time when the mere sight of her disgusted me, the sound of her voice like that of silverware scraping against the bottom of a cauldron. The mere memory of her causes me cold sweats.

**Chamber of Secrets**

Tom Riddle didn’t ask me to put his diary in that Weasley girl’s possession. He had left it in my care, yes, but did not have time to tell me how to dispose of it before he fell for the first time.

There were all those raids, and honestly, I wished to get rid of the thing. The possibility of Tom Riddle’s return was getting thinner every day, and frankly, it did not cause me much sorrow, except for the fact that he was a formidable advocate for the cause I was raised to revere. But his methods disgusted me.

I knew my planting the diary would lead to unfortunate things, but I had thought they would affect Dumbledore, the Weasleys, and their precious Harry Potter. Of course, it did, but it also roped me back into that infernal circle.

How stupid I was, to think I could escape it.  
  
**Draco**

How did I fail him, ha! Let me count the ways: I let Narcissa coddle him. I insisted on being the stern paternal figure needed to balance my wife’s indulgence. I tried coddling him, too, in a grossly inadequate way: I bought his respect. I bought his friends’ respect. I made him fear me as I feared my father. I let him grow up to be as conceited as I was. I let him suffer the consequences of my mistakes.

I wonder how it would feel like to be free of generations of expectations, of prejudice and of an inheritance that never brought peace of mind to any of us.

As a matter of fact, I don’t know how he feels. One unfortunate tradition we have held on to is tight lipped detachment: individuals of quality do not go about talking of their feelings.

When I think about him, what saddens me the most is realising that I don’t really know who he is, and he doesn’t know who I am. Do we have enough time left to make up for all those wasted years? H. tells me there is, but I’m afraid she just wishes to comfort me. Do I even deserve to be comforted? Do I deserve to live on in Draco?

**Elite**

Belonging to a superior caste suits me. I enjoy luxury. I love a well-cut suit, a perfectly aged Firewhiskey, a fragrant-skinned mistress. I’m afraid it’s not something they will be able to reform me out of.

**Fudge, Cornelius**

Being able to manipulate that man is not a feather in anyone’s cap. It was vastly too easy.

**Greengrass, Cassiopeia**

One of my father’s younger mistresses. When I heard her voice coming from my bedroom, my comfortably warm bath became glacial. Oh no. _That_ day had come. In retrospect, I am thankful, but _Merlin’s balls!_ That evening, for an instant, I panicked. A much too lenient Fate decided that she should join me as I was bathing: being all clean and put together always made me focused and ready for anything. Once upon a time, it caused Narcissa much mirth to note that I spent almost as much time grooming as she did.

Taking several deep breaths, I cleared my throat and replied that I would be out shortly. What was I to say? I stepped out of the tub, carefully dried my skin and smoothed my hair. I hesitated between stepping out naked or putting on my crisp white bathrobe. Braggadocio was never a flaw of mine, so I opted for the second option. I smiled at the virginal image anyone could have conceived, and I hoped it would not be lost on Mistress Greengrass.

With all the courage my sixteen-year-old self could muster, I stepped out into the bedroom, where she stood, facing me. She smiled warmly and beckoned. I can’t remember what she called me. Or much of what happened next.

**H.**

What a fond memory I’ll always keep of that delicious young woman. I think we made our _re_ -acquaintance at the Minister’s wedding ball. She had just separated and looked forlorn, but I was taken with her loveliness instantly. Of course, she did not welcome my attentions warmly and I was not foolish enough to resent her for it. However, before the evening had come to a close, I had wrung a sincere smile from her.

It was encouragement enough, and I spent the next weeks trying to ingratiate myself with her, going so far as making abject (and absolutely sincere) apologies to her for all the suffering I and my like had inflicted upon her. I can’t seem to remember exactly how they were worded, but it seemed to convince her.

She was lonely, and so was I; after conversing our way through differences that would have seemed unconquerable to anyone else, we came to a startling conclusion.

I conceived a feral pride in contemplating her spent figure: her flushed cheek, her dark red, bitten lips, her dewy skin, so rosy compared to all the other mistresses I’d had; her hair, even more tangled than usual; her beautiful caramel eyes, peering at me under heavy lids; her legs, not yet closed, and still entwined with mine; droplets of my blood under her nails; the echo of her cries dying in my brain. I surrendered to her gentleness as she pulled me to her heaving chest. I listened intently as her heart went from a frantic pounding to a calmer pace as she fell asleep. I spent several minutes listening, then fell asleep, too.

**Ideology**

I don’t remember how old I was when I realised what it meant to be of my kind. Did I ever? I know my father wasted no time in teaching me the horror of having Mudbloods among us, pretending to be worthy wizards. In a near future, he told me, wizard blood would be so diluted that fine witchcraft would disappear, leaving us only menial, mundane kitchen magic only fit for house elves. I felt he was exaggerating, but the poison of prejudice had been instilled.

When I reached adulthood, I saw no other path worth following than that which was thrust upon me. I was married to an attractive girl from a noble family, and perpetuating our race was our first duty.

Tom Riddle appeared, with a shady past (and shadier ulterior motive), but he professed the same beliefs as my forebears, and I was urged to be in his good graces, so I joined his followers, among which many an unsavoury character I despised. From my upbringing, I had developed a wish for a perfectly ordered world, where Mudbloods would know their place and Purebloods would be masters. But I soon realised order was not a part of Tom Riddle’s idea of a perfect wizarding society; the only thing he sought was power, and he did not care how it presented itself to him. I suppose what made me useful to him was my wealth, a form of power like any other.

**Jelly Legs**

It must have been the beginning or middle of my third year. Sometimes I would part company with my “friends” (those people Father wanted me to ingratiate myself with) and wander Hogwarts hallways, searching for something interesting to witness. It was just such an occasion when I spied Arthur Weasley and his group of Gryffindor twits heading to their house Head’s office; the Weasley patriarch, then a lanky, clumsy oaf much like his youngest son Ronald, was to receive his Head Boy badge.

I had learned of the spell the previous summer, watching Bellatrix Black casting it on house-elves. It was somewhat reprehensible.

I must admit it was quite mean: Arthur and I had yet to develop our deep-seated enmity, what with our being still just students instead of grown men vying for power in the Ministry hallways. But I could not resist casting the spell which sent the self-righteous red-head face first on the hallowed Hogwarts flagstone. Such fond memories are a precious few.

**Knowledge**

It is one of the things H. and I were surprised to share: a thirst for knowledge. I always had perfect results at Hogwarts. In fact, the school year, more precisely intensive exam periods, were oases; they were an excuse to escape from social calls and having to ingratiate myself with the right persons. Later, when my adult life required it, my ability to acquire and retain knowledge was invaluable: remembering enemies and adversaries’ weaknesses, wives’ birthdates, names of Ministry officials of any consequence, so on and so forth.

Also, I had the delight of ravishing H. several times in my library at the Manor. If that is not honouring knowledge, I do not know what is.

**London (Muggle)**

The affair with H. has the unforeseen benefit of accustoming me with parts of London I had never condescended to visit. She insists we meet in the Muggle part of the city; I insist on comfortable and appropriately opulent premises; she drags me to Muggle historical sites which are, I am quite put out to say, indeed fascinating. My darling H. even managed to find out about magical occurrences in every site we visited, events I was shamed to admit I had never heard of previously.

**Muggles**

I do not think they are stupid, primal creatures. Not exactly. However, I find their reliance on what they call _technology_ immensely amusing. I pity them.

**Narcissa**

Of course, ours was a match made many years before we actually laid eyes on each other. I was third year at Hogwarts when I overheard a conversation between my parents. My mother was suitably reluctant to give her precious son away, to which my father quite astutely retorted that we were not to be married during the next school holiday. Returning to school the next day, I started to observe the Black girl, and was happy to detect a lack of coquetry and a sort of… solidity which reassured me. Even if my mother had cultivated a regrettable pride in my being, more specifically in my physical charms, I did not wish to be fawned over by a fussy, scatterbrained schoolgirl.

We were married two years after I finished at Hogwarts (Narcissa being a year younger); my father insisted I took what H. tells me Muggles call a Grand Tour (apparently, no one does in their society anymore. What a shame.) I was supposed finish my education by learning about the mores of other wizarding communities, but on the morning I was departing, my father convoked me in his study and told me to “have as many women as I wished, as long as I did not catch diseases and/or allow our name to be sullied”. When I very feebly protested I was truly looking forward to enhance my cultural knowledge, he raised his eyebrows and handed me a contraceptive potion.

Our wedding was a preposterously grand affair, obviously. Later that night, when Narcissa was looking at me with an endearing mix of shyness and wonder, and I was affecting wordly detachment to hide my nervousness, we were both astonished to realize we would never subject our eventual progeny to such pressure and scrutiny.

Our marriage worked for about five or six years, that is to say the time it took for our physical attraction to wane. We did not exactly despise one another afterwards: I was genuinely fond of Narcissa (or the idea of her), but had nothing to talk about except Draco, and so often disagreed bitterly on his subject. She resented my association with Voldemort from the very beginning (not exactly out of virtue, but rather because she feared - quite rightly, history would tell - that her son would be sucked in that maelstrom) and wanted nothing to do with any of it. I did my best to preserve her, and Draco, but couldn’t, in the end.

**Opportunism**

It can be summarized thus, that my whole life, up to now, has been wasted in the constant quest for opportunities to keep my family name what it has always been: revered for all the wrong reasons, despised by any upstanding wizard, hallowed in history books who surely got it all spectacularly wrong.

I was taught to be there when a Minister of Magic was susceptible to be corrupted, or when one of his closest advisor sought swift advancement; I was to be my most persuasive when decisions relating to the future generations’ education were made; when Tom Riddle made his first appearance, he was a champion to Purebloods, so naturally I _had_ to be in his inner circle; when he re-emerged, it had become too dangerous to be against him.

**Potter, Harry**

If he had not been so like his mediocre, righteous father, I could have been on Harry Potter’s side. I had even instructed Draco to be pleasant to him. A mere toddler who had survived the magic of Tom Riddle surely had powers unheard of, and it is always preferable to be on such a person’s good side.

**Quidditch**

I was capable enough as a Beater, but I have to admit that I mainly played because my father had been a stellar player in his time, and I wished to have at least on thing in common with him. Obviously, I was too young to know better.

**Riddle, Tom**

Being in that person’s presence was _never_ a pleasant experience, for _anyone_ , I’m quite sure. I despised him from the first time he addressed me. First, there was that obsequiousness he reserved to people he thought would be of use to him; fools were flattered, but I felt that, given the chance, he would rather suck the power out of you than have to deal with mere beings of flesh and blood.

When he felt he had gained sufficient power, in himself and with the unfortunate army he had recruited, he turned us all in subservient pawns.

That is all I wish to say on his subject.

**Snape, Severus**

If my father had seen him at the Sorting ceremony, he would have ordered me to stay away from the miserable-looking, ugly half-blood. But I felt a strange urge to take him under my wing. Academically speaking, he proved worthy of my attentions, but that weakness for the sanctimonious Evans girl irritated me.

Like everyone, when I learned of his role during Voldemort’s interregnum and second rise, I was awed like I never had been at his courage, patience, and self-sacrifice. H. and I often speak about him. She once said, only half-joking, that I should always think of him on my road to redemption.

**Tonks**

Narcissa was deeply distressed with Andromeda’s disgraceful union with that Muggle-born. Once, when Tom Riddle first rose, she insisted we secretly visited the cursed couple to try and convince them to at least _appear_ to repent, and separate. I had an inkling it would not be kindly received, but it was at a time when we were desperately trying to hold on to whatever had made our marriage tolerable, so I accepted to go along.

I tried to be civil to Ted Tonks, mainly for the sake of the little girl, Nymphadora, who looked at us very attentively during the tense interview with her parents. Andromeda was glacial, Narcissa tearful and angry, so we husbands, had we been raised to feel social equals, could have bonded over our utter uselessness.

**Umbridge**

That stupid, revolting woman! She is possibly the Ministry official I had the most pain in corrupting. She obviously found me very attractive, and even once asked if she could stroke my hair. As if I was one of her ghastly cats to pet!

**Virtue**

H. is obviously, at heart, a virtuous woman. She confessed to me things she has done that she should not have, but on the Great Scales of Right or Wrong, the latter is in sore deficit with the delightful girl. I’m toiling on making her at the very least sensually debauched, and she’s an enthusiastic student, but that is the whole extent of corruption I’m willing to inflict her.

**Weasley**

See Jelly Legs.

**Xerxes**

He was a squib great-uncle on my mother’s side. One summer, he was visiting with his elderly parents, at the same time as my cousin Spurius, a particularly vicious fellow. One afternoon, we found ourselves alone in a walled garden of the Manor with Xerxes. The young idiot started taunting the poor squib, who first, I must admit with admiration, responded with as much dignity as he could muster. But Spurius was relentless. He soon started to throw smarting curses at him. I told him to stop (I still don’t know why: I had already been taught to despise the weak and the magic-less) but he kept on throwing curses, his eyes wild. Poor Xerxes was whimpering like a puppy by then, but as I was trying to physically contain Spurius, I saw my father coming towards us. Letting go of my cousin to meet him and ask him to put an end to this assault, I did not see, but heard, Spurius crying “Crucio!” I remember freezing on the spot, watching my father approaching and hearing Xerxes yelling, my mouth gaping.

But that was not the worst. That came a few seconds later, when my father took both Spurius and I by the arm and dragged us away, wordlessly, leaving Xerxes slumped on a rose bush, quivering with terror and pain.

**Yoke**

Wealth. Power. Voldemort. Blood. Tradition. Love. Hatred. Duty.  
  
**Zeal**

There is nothing I will not do to make it worth her while. There is no one I would kneel before anymore except her. The first time I pleasured her thus, the poor dear protested at first, embarrassed, but I would have none of it, and she _did_ end up singing sweetly for me. She never asks for it still, but I’m patient.

If she be my penance for my past crimes, I’ll kneel and drink from her evermore. As monotheistic Muggles would say, Amen.  
  
  



End file.
